


Psalm 23:4

by Abejas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and stitches in all their glory, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Nyotalia, dubious medical care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abejas/pseuds/Abejas
Summary: "Even though I walkthrough the valley of the shadow of deathI will fear no evil,for you are with me;your rod and your staff,they comfort me."A shortish slightly slapped together drabble based on the origin of Fem!Prussia's scar, set at the end of her Teutonic Knights days. Exhaustion was my prompt and there's LOTS OF Exposition and I am only a little sorry. There will be a chapter 2 based on forgiveness between poland and the Order soon.





	Psalm 23:4

The sun blazed in her eyes as she fell backwards, her legs finally buckling, the exhaustion catching up to her with a dizzying rush. The Teutonic Order’s cheek was split to the bone, and she was sure she was bleeding out, but she barely felt it through the pounding of her heart, the trembling of her limbs. It figured she’d collapse now; sheer willpower had kept her fighting through the death of her men, the capture of her masters, the searing hot cut of Lithuania’s sword across her face just as she was about to drag her own across Poland’s throat. It was inevitable, she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, the last time she had slept. Somewhere along the line, she had numbed to those basic urges, forced her emaciated body to push forward with no thought to her gaunt face, the hair thinning, her lips cracked and peeling. She should’ve known better; rage alone couldn’t fuel her forever, shouldn’t have fueled her for as long as it had. It was monstrous even for a monster like her.

Relief flooded her as her body hit the ground, the wind knocked from her by the impact. She wheezed, agonized as her lungs failed to draw the air in. The sky above her flashed red, then black as she slipped into the oblivion of approaching death. The Order welcomed it peacefully, too wounded and defeated to fight anymore, grateful finally for the silence, for the peace she had failed to carve for herself from war.

\---

Calm did not visit long. Dimly, a voice broke through the tranquil darkness, incoherent and distant in her delirium. Lithuania shouting at her in broken German—urging her to stay conscious, to open her eyes for God’s sake—her voice echoing as if shouted from inside a church with vaulted ceilings and long halls. It struck the Teutonic Order as odd, Lithuania would never step inside a church– _the fucking pagan_. The fucking pagan with her cowardly sneak attacks, her brutal strength and ruthless aim, all guided by measured discipline and unflinching composure. She had culled the Teutonic Order like cattle; the beloved Holy Sword of the Lord whom from creation had been made immaculate and sublime.

The bile rose in the Order’s throat, bitter and corrosive, she had failed.

It was the _godless pagan_ who was the perfect knight.

The rage returned enough to transfuse faint strength into the Teutonic Order's veins, and in the confusion of the fading blackness, the slow gravity of her delirious state, she willed her broken body to rise. Firm gloved hands impeded her, shoved her arms down, while another pair of hands clasped her slashed face in a desperate attempt to stem the bleeding. Bewildered, the Order pried opened her eyes; her vision swam, she struggled to peer into the blurred face grimacing down over her.

  
A moment of clarity. A splash of faint freckles on a bruised, bloodied face, the browns and blues streaking through the green of fear-filled eyes. Lithuania. Grim and war-worn, her hair in disarray, braid coming undone, her mouth moving, shouting words the Order could not decipher through the ringing of her ears, uncomprehending that her enemy would strike her down with such a vicious wound and not leave her to die.

Pity. Charity from the heathen. 

Revulsion filled her, the taste of bile and blood burned at her tongue again. The Order writhed weakly, tried to will her arms to shove Lithuania away, but found herself bound and drained of strength. An unpleasant wave of panic filled her, her empty stomach twisting in revolusion. She retched violently and drily, convulsed under the shaking hands that clung to her and held her in place. The Order struggled to escape the hold, disturbed at the distraught voice praying for her, stumbling and faltering over the words. Disbelief burned tears into The Order’s eyes, a deeply rooted sorrow and self-loathing strangled her heart. It was Poland, restraining her arms so Lithuania could attend to her wounds unhindered, even as blood dripped from her neck where the Order’s blade had been mere moments before.

The Teutonic Order was stunned and then she was furious. The urge to damn the both of them, to demand they leave her to die swelled with wild, unbridled resentment in her throat. She panted painfully, gasped, opened her mouth to curse—and gave a mangled _scream_ as a sharp heat pierced through the wound on her cheek without warning: A needle with thread, knitting the flesh together with frantic speed.

Consciousness rushed at her with all the fury of a stampede. The pain was immeasurable—primal and animalistic. The Teutonic Order rode a final surge of instinctive strength enough to thrash and scream wildly under a cursing, fumbling Lithuania, before finally, her heart, overworked and fragile inside her, spasmed painfully and finally gave out.  
Darkness swept in and an urge to sleep overtook her that felt ancient and endless. Her awareness ebbed out, her memories became fragmented: Lithuania screaming at her to stay awake, Poland crying and shrieking for Lithuania to hurry up—that The Teutonic Order was suffering—that she was dying—that she didn’t deserve this, none of them did.

  
Her mind stilled, her breathing stopped as her body grew cold, her limbs stiff—yet, all the while, Lithuania, her furious burning tears now spilling onto the Order, still threaded her flesh together with a crude needle again and again.

\---

She awoke weeks later, alone in a bed in a room she instantly recognized as a prison cell trying to disguise itself as a very richly decorated guestroom. She scowled at the stone wall with its bar covered windows, the door with no handle, the absence of guards and maids to give the room the warm hospitality it was trying to emulate with expensive furniture and fine sheets. The Teutonic Order—if that was still her name—sat up and closed her eyes, feeling for the stirring of her knights and people within her heart. A painful, tense second passed in utter silence, but faintly, the sound of men, women and children moving, breathing, speaking, living, filled her ears. Losing the war had not killed her….Lithuania and Poland had mercy, had not massacred her people while she lay defenseless.

  
A wave of sorrow overtook her once again, and tears sprung to her eyes. She wiped them away stubbornly, she had not cried in ages, she would not cry now. She shook free of her covers; Where was she? In Warsaw, an inner instinct answered her as she tentatively shifted her weight to her toes and attempted to stand on her stiff legs only to immediately crumble to her knees. She cursed loudly, but forced herself to crawl with difficulty to where a washing bin and mirror awaited her and braced herself for what her reflection would reveal.

It was an instant shock, more than she expected it to be. Her face was swollen beyond recognition, wrapped carefully in wine and vinegar dripped dressing stuffed with achillea and cloves, from her guess. With shaking fingers, she peeled them away, and stood in horrified disbelief at the inflamed wound on her cheek, shocked that it had not healed in all the time she slept. She had been told that death was a rejuvenating rebirth where all sorts of mortal wounds would be instantly resolved, yet here she was, still injured, still bearing the mark of utter defeat. She trembled, her teeth chattering with mounting dread, her fingers gingerly tracing the wound disfiguring her. The inner, ancient voice all nations possessed answered the question she didn’t dare to ask: the wound would heal as if she were a mortal, would make her suffer for an entire season, leave her with a scar to shame her for the rest of eternity.

It was too much to bear; she seized the mirror in her hand and destroyed it against the door before turning to the rest of the room to vent her anguish and her anger. Glass and wood splintered underneath her fists and feet, the noise attracted the guards posted outside her door whose bones soon met the same fate. In her weakened state, it still took five strong men to subdue her while another five worked simply to tie her arms to her bedpost.

Afterwards, Poland arrived in scandalous condition and foul temper. She stormed into the room in her nightgown, her face a frightful shade of red and huffily informed the Teutonic Order that Lithuania had half a mind to whip her, and her behavior was swiftly giving Poland the other half a mind to form a full mind to allow it. It was a threat more meant as a reprimand, but it was unbearable for the Order to see her, let alone to be seen, and at the intrusion the Order burst into tears that could not be dried no matter how frantically an awkward Poland tried to console her, releasing her from her restraints and filling her hands with candy and coins as if she were a child. But comforting was not in her repertoire and soon the tears drove Poland hastily away with promises to send a physician to attend to the Order and whatever it was that was ailing her.

By the time the physician arrived, an elderly man with a kindly voice who knocked gently on the door and asked nicely to enter, the Order had cried herself to hoarseness and though  touched by the man’s consideration for her in both his manner and his german, she refused him viciously. Promised the guard attending she’d snap the poor man’s neck if he were allowed through, adding for effect that she’d rip out his innards with her bare hands and decorate the walls with his heathen blood if her wish to be left alone were not heeded. The guard, whose own arm was nearly crushed by the Order only earlier that day, did not need further convincing, and sent word to the king that the devil still spoke through the Teutonic Order and He refused her further visitors. Infuriated, the King relayed to his court that such a beast would not be trusted in the company of any mortal, god fearing christian.

The insult was a rebuke to the Order’s pride, but her wish was granted. No servants visited to clear the mess she had made, and no maids came to bathe and dress her. She did not miss their service; in her entire life, she had never known any servants and was accustomed to providing for herself. She preferred it, could not stand the way humans stared at her, their gaze roving over her unnaturally fair skin and hair before finding her eyes. She hated the fear that registered on their faces when they noticed the crimson red seeping into the blue of her irises. She knew rumours persisted in the rural villages that the Order was so drenched in blood both pagan and christian, that the Lord had burned its color into her eyes to punish her, so everyone who met her gaze would know her for an abomination.

She gritted her teeth, salvaged a piece of mirror from the wreckage and peered again at the mangled flesh of her scar once more. Now, she thought wryly, they’d not have to look at her eyes to know.


End file.
